Page 47 of Painted in Love

He stared at the floor. Then his gaze flashed like fire over the ruins of his art.

She prompted him. “What’s your answer?”

Finally, his shoes scuffing the floor, he mumbled, “I can hack it.”

It was a start. He might hug himself when he fell asleep tonight, maybe even shed an ocean of tears when no one could see. But this was a start.

She didn’t let go of his hand. “I know you can. I just wanted to hear you say it.” She pointed at the destruction. “You can redo your work. Or you can paint new stuff that’s even better. But trashing everything isn’t how you want to handle this kind of thing in the future, right? Destroying what’s good because you feel bad?”

Dylan took another long moment to answer. “Yeah. You’re right.” Finally—thank God—he gave a half-hearted smile. “Some of my stuff is actually kinda good, right?”

She held his hand tight. “Your art is amazing.” She pointed at the one painting he hadn’t destroyed. “Your cockroach really did fly, no matter what anyone else says.”

She smiled, then glanced at Clay standing in the doorway, his face impassive, immovable, unreadable. He left Dylan’s studio without another word.

Clay bounded up the stairs to his loft, his guts roiling.

How could Saskia think that Dylan had to put up with such cruel criticism from the jerks who’d trashed him? He didn’t understand her.

In the flat, he threw himself into his computer chair, brought the monitors to life, called up the internet, and began searching all the online comments.

His guts ached for Dylan. Just as he’d been responsible for what happened to Gareth, he was responsible for Dylan. He would fix this, and his fingers flew over the keys as if they had minds of their own.

He scented her first, even before he heard her footsteps. Damn, the way she smelled. Her beautiful mango aroma made everything in him tighten.

Yet that sensual need didn’t erase the ache in his belly.

He spoke without looking at her, because that might be his undoing. “Why would you tell Dylan that he should just take it?” He couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. “He’s been through the wringer, and we need to help him. I have bots that can get rid of all these nasty reviews.”

The warmth of her hand on his shoulder seeped through him, and he saw the haloed reflection of her in the screen.

Then her soft, sweet, gentle voice washed over him. “You can’t do that, Clay.” She didn’t pause long enough for him to speak. “Because the minute you’re not in his life deleting bad reviews, he’s going to be ill-equipped to handle any criticism.” She stroked his nape, sifted her fingers through his hair, slayed him with her touch, and robbed him of words. “I get what you’re doing, and your idealism is beautiful. But I’ve seen it all as San Holo’s assistant. San would tell you himself that this is the reality Dylan has to face.”

As much as he wanted to drink in the sight of her, the scent of her, he stared at the screen instead, fighting for control.

Her soothing voice drifted over him again. “Even San has to face it. Honestly, a couple of times, clients hated his work so much they painted over it.”

Clay couldn’t resist the temptation to turn to her then. “Didn’t that just kill him?” His voice sounded hollow.

She shrugged. “San has a thick skin. The artist in him knew the work was good. They were just people who didn’t get it.” She smiled. “Luckily, San always has the canvases on which the original idea grows before going on a wall.”

But Clay wondered if San Holo’s reaction was worse than Saskia knew. He couldn’t imagine the great artist not throwing a fit when his work was painted over. Maybe the man showed only Saskia what he wanted her to see.

His voice came out low and hoarse. “No one would dare paint over San Holo’s work now. It’s too revered.”

Once again, she shrugged. “In the beginning, the work was painted over. Because that’s what happens with street art. But you’re right,” she admitted. “No other street artist paints over San’s art now.” She caressed him just above his collar. “But clients don’t always feel the same. Even if he is an icon.”

“But Dylan is just starting out,” Clay protested, the ache rising up his throat. “My life’s work has been about creating a space where no one gets to trash anyone else’s work. It’s okay for people to say whatever they want about San Holo, because there are so many people who know he’s amazing. But that’s not true for a fledgling artist like Dylan.” When she opened her mouth, he rolled right over her words. “Look at Gareth. He never painted again. Not until you encouraged him the other day.”

He turned back to his computer, and her hand fell away, trailing warmth down his arm. “I get how you feel,” she said in the softest of voices. “Especially because of Gareth. But there’s another side. Think about kids. They have to learn how to walk. They have to walk to school by themselves. They have to enter the real world and see how it feels. You have to let artists judge for themselves what people say and decide whether a comment can actually improve their work. Reviews and comments make artists think. You can’t take that lesson away from them, even if it hurts them when it’s happening.”

She made him think of his brother and sister, Dane and Ava. That’s how they’d been with him, with all of them really. They’d smoothed the way for their younger siblings. Today they’d call it lawnmower parenting. When their parents died in that avalanche during their ski trip twenty years ago, Dane and Ava, being the two eldest, had dropped out of school to take care of the rest of them. They’d all helped train Gabby in soccer so she made her high school team on the first tryout. They’d sent her to cooking school in Paris. Troy had wanted to become an Olympic diver, and they’d done everything in their power to get him there. They’d worked their asses off to get Clay into Harvard, and he’d wanted to make the big bucks to pay them back. By the time he graduated, though, both Ava and Dane had already made it big, Ava well on the way to creating her billion-dollar eldercare corporation, and Dane turning one resort into a worldwide empire. They’d enabled their siblings to do what they loved while creating empires of their own.

It was after the tragedy with Gareth that Clay had recognized another thing big bucks could do. “This is what I’ve worked for all these years. To help artists like Dylan. Like Gareth.” His heart hammered with emotion. “That’s why I created my nutrition and exercise app, so it would go viral, and I could sell it. I took the proceeds—five hundred million—and grew that money until it allowed me to build Art Space and fund these warehouses. Because I wanted to protect them. So nothing like what happened to Gareth happened to anyone else.”

“You are such a beautiful idealist,” she said softly.

He wasn’t sure it was a compliment.

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